Dead Men Tell No Lies
by Magnipotence
Summary: Moriarty fears nothing. He does not even fear the soul of England.


_Dead Men Tell No Lies_

X

_Fear rips apart my heart. _

_Fear bursts my veins._

–_Angst, _E Nomine

Moriarty fears nothing. He does not even fear the soul of England.

X

Dragged away from his cell he is by men in uniforms; the blood on his destroyed fingernails marking a path down the expanse hallway. The hawk eyes of a mortified Mycroft follow him as Moriarty grows farther and farther away from his holding centre. The blood drips as they make eye-contact. It seems as if the dripping is suddenly the only noise in a silent world.

_Drip, drip._

Mycroft knows. As they grow apart, Moriarty helplessly dragged by timid men who fear the strike of God, their eye-contact never breaks. He _knows._

Dangerous. _Danger, danger, let the women escape!_ A live wire – a creature controlled by no one. A live wire ready to unleash his mad genius upon the waking world. Mycroft understood the severity of his hazardous existence and the threat he truly poses.

_Drip, drip._

A fool they took him for! He is well understanding of the fact that Mycroft's skill at deduction surpassed even that of Sherlock's own. Even the supposed Sherrinford Holmes who is said to care of their ailing mother and the crumbling and ancient estate is better than the both of them _combined_. Mycroft may be nothing short of a genius like his siblings, but the difference lies present nonetheless. He is _lazy._ An accursed, damned thing that ruins the lives of many prosperous. The lazy accomplish nothing and only prove further to hinder the ones who _live_.

A simple tool he is. A toy of the Queen and wrapped up tightly in the blackened web of a spider disguised as the English government. He's no match – a pawn to scraped within the first moves. Not even an opponent, not even an enemy. He would dead within minutes if the game would be chosen to play. A small threat to handled by a button or two.

_Drip, drip._

Even so far, he can still read the silent '_why?_' in the man's eyes. A curved smile is his only answer.

In his boredom, – desperate for attention, perhaps for some response that no one seemed to understand enough to even comply an _answer – _he painstakingly carved the name of his most valued enemy in the walls of his holding cell. It is not the black king, or even the white one, too obscure for either Queens, but rather just a man of both dark and light.

Artificial light had guided his way. Into the walls, he had carved SHERLOCK over and over again until it had covered each bare inch of wall. And they had watched his spree; had watched him in his moment of lunacy as he carved the name of his worthy adversary into their walls. The last stance when he had begun to scratch the bloodied name into the glass window where he _knew _they stood behind.

And an hour later, here he is, being removed from his cell-mate and dragged away from such a place drowning in such obscure misery and depression. He has proven their fear – their fear of _him_.

As the eye-contact finally breaks, he shoved into a room with a completely new face; forced into making eye-contact with eyes of emerald green instead of dark brown. This is the face of a man he knows he's seen before.

_Drip_.

"Welcome," they greet uninterestingly. A stark white room accompanied with two uncomfortable-seeming chairs and a table dotted with a stack of books and a tea-set. One cup has already been filled. A stranger sits in one of the chairs, attempting his best to make himself comfortable in the squat piece of furniture. He sits with crossed legs, one hand holding up a faded leather novel and the other the resting place of his head.

He reeks of age, but yet doesn't look a day over thirty.

Moriarty sits back in the wooden chair and pulls himself a cup of tea. He sips at it quietly, wondering what inane chemicals they've attempted to store within its recesses in an attempt to sedate him. Expecting the accursed poisons to rise the surface, he is met with the distorted image of his face instead.

"The room isn't bugged," the stranger speaks again. His accent is strange – as if a thousand accents had been meshed all into one. "They respect me too much to dare interrupt my privacy."

"Don't you mean fear?"

"Ah, a thin line between the two. Sometimes they're the same thing. Sometimes completely different. Fear and respect are equally powerful and just as destructive."

"To be one over the other would only result in destruction and the death of a kingdom." He mutters into his tea with a slim smile.

The fallen kings of England dance in frightening circles in his head. How the mighty had descended due to their own egotism and excitement. Many had been loved and revered – treated as walking Gods of the mortal world. Their fall from grace had been caused by their own stupidity. Allowing themselves to unbalance the scale had cost many their lives. Kings sacked, Queens beheaded, royal families torn apart at the hands of peasants. The Jane's and Richard's of the whole British isles had met their ends by forgetting and imbalancing what would help them most – their divine right.

They had fallen to the level of humanity and with the rest of humanity, they fell from grace.

"Fear is what drives humans." The stranger comments after a moment of silence. He peers over the edge of his ancient, crusting novel with jade eyes and simply asks: "Is it what drives you?"

He does not answer the man. A dull ache resonates in the tips of his stained hands.

The unfamiliar man at last sets down his book with a thump on the table. It creaks as it shuts close; an odd noise in the white silence that smothers them both. Moriarty watches silently as they readjust themselves – looking for mistake, looking for humanity, looking for _fear_ and _understanding_.

"My name is Mr. Kirkland." He finally introduces. "And I'm told you're a James Moriarty? What a queer name. Familiar almost. Do your friends call you Jim?"

"I don't have friends." Associates. Enemies. Ancient lovers of an ancient world. The word of '_friends_' has been a missing word in his endless dictionary since the days of sharp sticks and jagged rocks.

"What a shame. I find myself in the same position." Mr. Kirkland answers calmly. His eyes of green are a shade he's seen many a time in his thirty years of boring existent. Familiar eyes, but they're cold and distant. Eyes of monster, some would accuse. "A shame that men like us aren't allowed the sanctity of friends. Fear drives our hearts, forcing the potential to their knees in the need of the respect they choose to accept. A pity truly, but it is what it is."

"Men of us?" Moriarty questions. "I didn't realise we were of the same standard, Mr. Kirkland."

"Smart lad, aren't you? We're similar people men though we would never flock together as birds of a feather. We share something in common still though – we are feared and we revered."

"My knowledge of you is slim, my _friend_, as I've never even _met _you before this fated meeting. Rather it is, I can't say that I agree. Who fears you, Mr. Kirkland?"

"Who else but the very person who brought us together?"

"Did you threaten his brother? Attempt to spike his majesty's royal tea?"

Mr. Kirkland's face seems to slightly darken at the mention of the Queen, but his face clears and he sneers instead. "Far worse, boy. Far worse than you could ever imagine. A genius or not, your influence stretches only so far."

The man before him is nothing special. His intelligent seems profound, his speak though the voice of a thousand year old man. There are cracks at the edges of his jaded eyes and small creases in his forehead. His eyebrows are something that he doesn't even wish to think about, but his hair is still blond, his skin is still fair, and his eyes are a common green. He dresses in argy-le sweater-vests with rare dress shirts, slick trousers and overly expensive loaders.

A common stereotype of the British man he seems – his thick eyebrows only seem to overly aggravate such a claim even more so.

Mr. Kirkland leans back in his chair, suddenly poised with his tea-cup and minuscule plate. "Hmm. Tell me, Jim, what's your opinion on that of fear? Are you man of God, or are you a man of fear?"

"Fear is everything." He utters, his voice so low that almost he can't hear it himself. "To exist without fear is to exist with _nothing_."

"What is there to fear though? Fear is powerful. There is no doubt about that."Fear is a force, an...entity of its own. It controls all whether they accept its grip or it. It moves nations; it breaks them. Fear is what drives the mad to do what they please. Fear...Fear is interesting. There is quite nothing like that of fear."

Silence descends over them and drowns them in its grasp of black noise. Moriarty lifts his lukewarm tea for a sip and watches the visage of his face distort in the dark liquid."To live without fear is to not live at all."

An eyebrow rises in response. The teacup _clinks _as it's placed back on the saucer. "A bold statement. Some might say you're mad if they hear you proclaim such things."

"Do you believe it yourself?"

"That you're one of the damned's merry men? Perhaps. I have heard much about you. You're a subject of interest – an enemy to be radiated before the public gains knowledge of your doomed existence. A hot topic truly with your wilful mind games and your assassination of the most deadly associations in the world."

He drinks his tea in a moment of silence. "The thing that stands out most though is your intelligence. You are a genius. A rare mind these days in the wave of ignorance spread by the advancement of technology. Your brain could lead to many things, but instead it serves one purpose: To destroy Sherlock Holmes."

"And so we come to the final truth. How..._unpleasant._"

"How unpleasant indeed!" Mr. Kirkland agrees. "Mycroft fears me. He fears you too. My presence is a simple matter really. I don't need to be here. I'm not the one who is going to plunge their knife deep within that black hole that you call your heart. I'm not the one that's going to kill you. You're more likely to end up with the gun at the back of your throat as it is."

"You think so little of me!"

"Greater men, my friend, have fallen prey to such madness. You are a creature with a single purpose and that is not something I wish to deserve. All my life I have understood that to disrupt the flow of Fate disrupts the very hand of time and causes imbalance in our imbalanced world."

"And your precious God? The deity for which millions have killed? Does he care too little as well to interrupt in what seems to be the Fool's play?"

"Not even He dares to interrupt a hand of Fate. Your actions are your own, but the result will be that of Fate's. What happens, happens. It isn't my place to interrupt."

_Annoying_.

This man is _annoying. _Moriarty is rock still. This man is irritating. This man is _annoying_. Words leave this man's mouth, which are chapped with age and quick wit, all in an attempt to disrupt the stability of his being. He will not allow it. _He will not allow it._

He needs to _die_.

"Oh, then where in the world are you allowed to interrupt, my friend? If you're not allowed to stop a...man of _my _nature, then what men are you allowed to stop if not any at all?"

"My job is to murder the men who risk the relevance of my very existence." Mr. Kirkland tips his head back, revealing a pale throat with the tiniest, thinnest scar running along its base. "I, like you, do not exist. My information has long been burned from the records. As far as the world is concerned – Arthur Kirkland does exist. James Moriarty does not either."

The man before him is far more than he reveals. What is there to fear? He seems overly human: A British stereotype who seems to have the brother of his arch-nemesis by the very balls and the rest of the English government within his grasp. What is the point of his coming to this forsaken place? Why ever would Mycroft risk the discovery of the very creature that threatens to sever the link that keeps the weight of the world from falling upon his thick shoulders?

"James Moriarty is not your real name."

Arthur's voice breaks the sudden silence that had overtaken them once more by surprise. Moriarty does not react. His alias is no big secret.

"The real James Moriarty had been a professor at some little-named University somewhere in Scotland. He died when he stumbled over Reichenbach Falls when visiting his ailing sister on vacation sometime in 2005. A rather obscure man to take an identity for – the man had even taught anthropology. Though, it was perfect, wasn't it? An identity for the picking – an anagram of your own real name and you didn't even have to craft it up yourself! Most of his family was dead and his sister had died as a result of the cancer and her broken heart. She had been taking cyanide for weeks as a result of her dying mind and her obscure paranoia that the nurses were going to attempt to for her old money. She was dying and she was insane. Her money had disappeared long before her death."

"Know the whole story do you?" His teacup is empty; has been empty for some time now. He still peers down, attempting to see his reflection in the wet porcelain.

"I know it all. I could tell you that the scars on your knees was from when your father made you crawl from one end of the street to the other after punching a kid in your primary school. I could tell you that your sister had died from a result of rat poison your jealous mother had fed her. I could tell you that it was not you that killed your father, but the years of alcohol abuse that his livered suffered. Hell, I could even tell you that it was Mrs. White in the Kitchen with the candlestick that murdered Scarlett. Don't tempt me child. It's possible that I could tell you things about your past that not even yourself can fathom."

Jim's eyes narrow at Arhur's cheeky expression. "Do you take me for an _idiot_, Mr. Kirkland? I don't _care _for your petty games nor your odd understanding of my past and present. Had you realised anything at all you would have realised that boy is dead and has been dead since the day he suffered a knife to the shoulder. You're a fool, Arthur, to think that you can so easily come within the dragon's den and tempt the beast. Why are you here? Is it to finally drive me to the brink of madness or is it finally to strike the match that desire nothing more than to be lit and let the sulphur burn at last?

The cheeky expression collapses and for a moment, Jim believes he's struck home with his insult. Though, he knows that it isn't over yet and his name-calling did truly nothing to get a rise out of Arthur. The stranger simply begins to smile and lets out a barking laugh.

"You don't scare me, Moriarty. Nothing scares me these days. So, you're a madman. You've been locked up by the Queen's dog and have come to hate them all simply because they don't give you what you _want_. And what you _want _is impossible to get as he's all locked up and miles away, under the supervision by that of which you've come to despise. You're locked in a cage, and your sanity slowly drains."

"Don't tell me you haven't felt the same at _some _point, Mr. Kirkland? To tell me that there has not been a point in your life where you have wished nothing more than to slaughter your prison-keepers and burn the city down around you to merely prove your point? You may not fear me, but you are not the person I want to feel such things. You are just a stranger – a curious man who wishes nothing more than to soothe such emotions by befriending the very demon itself. You are nothing to me."

"Ah, but I am everything whether you realise it or not. Tell me, am I supposed to _fear _you? You tell me that you only want one to fear you and I do not have the honour of being such a person, but is that all? You live with one purpose and one purpose only and that purpose is simple. It is written in the blood on your fingernails, or the walls of your cell. Your purpose is to _destroy _Sherlock Holmes. Your purpose exists solely on your attempts to make him revere and _fear _you. Out of jealously, out of hate, out of love, out of _fear_! You do it all! You simply live to destroy Sherlock. When that is done, you have no reason then. And when that reason is gone, eradicated from your mind when the deed is done, you will end it all as your reason to live is gone. To appease your simple God of madness which rages within the walls of your mind, you kill in the very name of what are said to revere and understand."

"So you know of Sherlock."

Mr. Kirkland laughs again. "I've known his family for many a year. Secretive clan though, especially after falling under the black umbrella that is Mycroft's influence. Their mother is quite the lovely woman though."

"Oh so I've heard."

"Wouldn't even think to cross your mind that they're related. Lovely woman either way." Arthur refills his tea, taking another sip of it. They fall back into the silence. It whistles at their edges; a suffocating creature that wishes nothing more than smother them with its blank noise that kills all life.

"Say, Jim, do you know what controls us? Fear. Fear is our leader, our ruler, our master. God is a figurehead that sits upon his throne such as the sons and daughters of his seed have done for centuries. Fear controls us. Without fear, there is nothing."

"And with fear, there is everything."

His reflection distorts in his empty cup. Arthur tilts his head. "Smart lad."

"Who are you?" He asks more to himself than anything."

"I could ask you the very same thing."

"Men of a feather are we? Shame that fire will one day burn the red strings that connect us, Mr. Kirkland.

"A fan of the red string theory are you? I know a man that does not shut up about their mystical powers. This man has the knowledge of eons of years and yet he believes in the fact that all humans fated to be together are connected by a single red string. When the red string snaps, it strangles them all. That's why some stay together with their loved ones, even under the threat of death and beatings, because they fear the repercussions of their red strings."

"And so we come back to fear."

"It is the centre of everything after all."

"An endless turning circle it seems."

"So indeed."

This time they do not fall back into silence. Arthur straightens himself, having at some point thrown his legs over the side of the wooden chair in an attempt to get comfortable and once more crosses his legs.

Again, Moriarty speaks.  
>"Interesting creature you are though I still have no understanding of who you truly are."<p>

"I'm Arthur Kirkland."

"Is that all?"

Jaded eyes flash. "Smart boy." A moment passes before Mr. Kirkland speaks again.

"And so we at last return to this moment which are keen to never leave. It's simple. Some might say I am what drives England itself. I am just a common everyday Briton who loves their Queen and never truly agrees with the whimsical words of David Cameron who I am hesitant to meet after I fear he will attempt to privatize my clothing. It seems I know all, doesn't it? But truly I'm as clueless as yourself. I am just another English citizen who does not exist and is seemingly the only odd-fish left in a world of sane men and fearless pig-ignorants. Rather above all else, past the stupidity of Government and taxes, I'm just here. Rather, I just live."

For a moment, he just sits and ponders the stranger's words. The pieces slowly begin to conform together; bumping and jamming against another in the confines of his mind as they attempt to find a balance. Before he realises it, he begins to drown in the sudden white noise. The pieces fit together slowly as the reality of it all sets in.

And then, he understands.

He stares at Mr. Kirkland, almost unable to believe it all. There's a sudden familiarity to him once again. He has the look of the ancients – a face set in the pages of history and their books alike. Mr. Kirkland steeples his fingers quietly and eye-contact is established. The lone smile at last seals the deal of his dangerous thoughts.

"Figured it out, have you?" The stranger smiles questioningly. "Lesser men have been extinguished for such thoughts. Smart lad."

"Am I to die along with such pointless men – to join up with the ranks of thousands who have fallen prey to your benevolent secret?"

And Mr. Kirkland laughs. He laughs and laughs until the teacup and saucer fall from his floor and shatter upon impact with the fall. Moriarty stares at its shattered remains, wondering what silent realisation can come from such action. The teacup bleeds brown liquid.

At this moment, he takes his time to leave. The nation in the room remains laughing as he silently shuts the door behind him.

When back out in the hall – and so suddenly alone and _desperate _for excitement – Moriarty locates the lone camera in the hallway and stares up deploringly into it. It zooms in on him and he knows, oh _he knows_, that Mycroft is watching _him. _His face contorts with a darkened glee.

"Clever do you think you are, Mycroft? You can't fool _me. _Your tactic at attempting to back me into a corner has only worsened your own ordeal! The scapegoat sent to me is rather ingenious, but where you really so desperate to think that it would actually work? Do you really think that sending the very embodiment of England is going to stop _me_? It's only done worse. You've only sealed your brother's death in stone now, my friend." He wants to _giggle _at the thought of the elder Holmes' expression; contorting with a distinct pain as the realisation that his brother is a dead man sinks in at last. Moriarty would give everything to see such an expression that signified a final defeat.

Soon, the men come to take him away. From the corner of his eye, he spots a glint of green in the shadows. Standing solemnly in the blind spot of the camera, Arthur stands scowling. Eye-contact is made as the cuffs are slapped open and his destroyed fingertips rip open again.

"I will win." He whispers.

Arthur only inclines his chin slightly. "And we will see if fear wins out in the end."

_Drip._

__X

_Mother! Fear is coming back.  
>aaaaaa...weakness. aaaaaa...anxiety.<em>

– _Angst, _E Nomine


End file.
